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An Excerpt From: ARDOR’S LEVECHE
Copyright © CHARLOTTE BOYETT-COMPO,
2005.
All Rights Reserved, Ellora's Cave Publishing,
Inc.
Ardor had been sitting alone in the pitch-black cell for
over an hour. There were no amenities—not even a solid-plank bunk—upon
which she could rest. Beneath her, the iron grating of the floor panels was
as cold as a Sualannach whore’s tit and she had been shivering for much of
the time. When she heard the scrape of boots outside the door, she tensed.
The cell opened with a clunk as the heavy door slid into
its pneumatic rails. Light from the corridor speared into the cell causing
Ardor to put an arm up to block the painful intrusion. She blinked,
squinting against the brightness and could see nothing save the dark
silhouettes of two figures outlined against the light.
“Major Ardor Kahn,” Breva growled, “get to your feet!”
The unease Ardor had been feeling escalated quickly to
apprehension as her name was called out in a harsh, angry tone. She had
been found out and now her life would be forfeit at the hands of the
traitors. All she could do was to accept her end as bravely as she had been
trained to do, with honor and courage. Slowly, she pushed up from the
floor, her face half-turned from the intrusion of the light.
Breva stepped up to their prisoner and took her chin in
his hand, jerking her face around. He anchored her head as his overlord
came to stand beside him. Despite the squint of the woman’s eyes, the major
was surprised at her unexpected beauty.
“Not half-bad for a Riezellian, eh?” Breva inquired.
Ardor’s back stiffened and she lifted her chin as high
as she could in the taut grip of her captor. Although she could not see his
face, she could make out a gleam in his eyes from the light reflecting off
the titanium walls behind her and that put a chill down her spine.
“Not as lovely as I’ve heard it said Chastain Neff is,
but it isn’t the face that counts, is it, Milord?” Breva asked.
There was a whisper of speech in a tongue Ardor did not
understand from the other man who had entered the cell. He was nothing more
than a black, bulky shape but he was—by far—the more menacing of the two.
It was in the steely vibrations he was giving off, the essence of power and
authority that radiated from him, and it set the hair to stirring on
Ardor’s arms.
“My overlord says you might be moderately attractive if
you weren’t a treacherous fox placed in his henhouse. He wishes a better
look at you.”
Able to pull her chin from the first man’s grip, Ardor
watched him slide like a will-’o-the-wisp from in front of her only to have
the second man step up close, crowding her, his towering height and breadth
of body intimidating and menacing. There was a warm fragrance of cinnamon
and musk coming from the tall one. That scent was almost intoxicating in a
sultry, sly way. She could feel the heat of his body and the roughness of whatever
garment he wore rasping against the bare arms she had instinctively crossed
over her chest.
Staring into what she thought was his face, she was
struck with dread when his eyes glowed crimson red, closed and then opened
again to gaze fixedly at her. Once more the strange whisper of speech in
that unknown tongue came from the deep depths of stygian blackness looking
down at her.
“My overlord asks if you fear him, wench,” the first man
translated the strange words.
Although her knees were threatening to buckle, Ardor
knew the worst thing she could do was show fright to her enemies. That they
would make good use of such an admission was a given. She was no coward and
refused to behave as one.
“Tell your overlord I never fear what I cannot see,” she
said, forcing her voice to be as strong and unwavering as she could make
it.
She flinched for the man standing in front of her raised
his hand, and for the first time she realized he was wearing a flowing robe
of some sort for she could just make out the voluminous sleeve of the
garment. Slowly, the lights came up in the cell from near-total darkness,
lit only from the spill of light from the corridor to dark gray then to
duskiness. As the volume of light continued increasing, Ardor could see the
man—nay, the being—who stood in front of her and for the first time
in her life knew the true meaning of terror.
His face glowed an eerie silver-white in the wash from
the lights brightening overhead. Deep, dark caverns rimmed eyes the color
of spilled blood. His cheekbones were prominent, fleshless, and where his
lips should have been, bare bone was peeled back to reveal two rows of
sharp fangs gnashed together like threads on a zipper. There was no skin on
that cinerary facelessness and when he lifted a hand, the stark contrast of
his skeletal fingers against the black fabric of his robe brought a groan
of horror to Ardor’s throat. So shocked was she at his appearance that
Ardor did not realize it was a mask she had been staring at.
At once the lights went out and she was plunged into
near-darkness once more. When his low, throaty whispers came this time,
Ardor felt herself begin to tremble. She was terrified he would put his
fleshless fingers upon her face.
“My overlord asks,” the first man said in a soft voice,
“if you fear him now.”
She knew his fingers were coming toward her face. She
could feel the displacement of the air, hear a slight rustle she thought
sounded like skin peeling back from bone. Biting her lip, embracing the
pain to keep herself from groaning again, she pressed against the wall of
her cell and waited for the touch she knew might well unnerve her
altogether.
But when it came, the touch was soft and warm. There was
no frigid scraping of bone along her cheek, but rather a slight
scratchiness as though the palm of the hand touching her might be rough
with calluses. It was a strong hand—a sword hand she guessed—and it was
sliding gently down her face.
He moved closer, pressing against her. One hand was on her
face and the other came up to mold itself around her breast where it
kneaded the full mass as though he had every right to do so. Shocked by
such liberties, Ardor opened her mouth to berate him, but the fleshy pad of
his thumb slid over her lips to silence her—a warning she had no choice but
to heed.
That raspy, throaty whisper fanned across her face and
she flinched—expecting the stench of the grave to issue from the man’s
mouth—but instead there was the sweet scent of lemon, which surprised her.
“My overlord asks if you want him to allow you to live.”
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